The Case of the Disappearing Butter

My hubby is full of anecdotes.  Here’s one:

Years ago, when his kids were still at home, they had a problem keeping butter in the house.  The dish sat on the table, so the spread would be soft and readily available.

“Kids, you’re going through the butter too fast.”

“Not me, Dad.”

“Not me either.”

“Well, someone is.”

“Not me.”

“Not me, Dad.”

So Dad kept a watch, at least from the corner of his eye.  Sure enough, the culprit returned to the scene of the crime.  The family’s golden retriever put her muzzle even with the table top and breathed in.  Zhoop.  The butter dish inched toward her.  Zhoop.  It slid closer.  With a last zhoop, the butter slipped off the dish into her mouth.

Now that Dad thought about it, her coat had taken on a sheen over the past several weeks.



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